Chalk
by Myshu
Summary: Fourteen months with nothing but rocks and birds for company? Sounds like a vacation to Church. In a way, it was the Director's last experiment.


The best and worst thing Command ever sent him was that box of chalk.

It was like a vacation, at first. He couldn't believe his luck, getting stationed to a base all by himself. No stupid Reds, no stupid medics, no stupid Freelancers, no stupid aliens, and no stupid Blues, either—just him and an empty base and all the peace and quiet he always wanted.

All he had to figure out was what to do with himself. He had fallen in and out of routines, ways to keep himself busy, but they all cycled back to futility—and ultimately, boredom. Patrol the inside, patrol the outside, walk the outer wall, walk the inner wall, shoot at the rocks, shoot at the birds, _never hit any of them_ , run out of ammo, rifle through the ammo crates and rations, organize them, re-organize them, patrol the outer wall, curse at the birds, shoot at the trees, run out of ammo again, retire, repeat.

So went day one, then two, three, four weeks—and once a month Command would deign to air-drop a crate of supplies. His outpost was so remote it didn't even warrant sending a delivery man—not that he cared. He didn't need any visitors, much less company. He was happier than he'd ever been at Blood Gulch, and getting a base to himself was the best thing the army ever did for him. There wasn't anyone to talk to (or boss around), but he still had his rifle, and plenty of ammo for it. One would think it difficult to justify the need for so much ammo where he was only surrounded by rocks and trees, but Command never questioned it, even when the only explanation he left on the supply request form was: _'FUCKING BIRDS.'_

When he turned to scavenging the once-abandoned base for distractions, he found a lackluster stash: one beaten-up board game, a bag of marbles, a deck of cards ( _'Bollywood's Most Wanted Edition,' what the fuck?)_ a Rubik's cube and two porno magazines.

It took an infuriating two days to realize that the board game was missing half its pieces (since it was missing the instructions as well), and in a fit of embarrassed rage he drop-kicked it out the front gate, scattering it to the birds. Months later he would still find weird, colored bits of cardboard in their nests.

The birds were a nuisance of their own, showing up in droves, making an awful racket and leaving a mess all over the place, so the marbles were at least useful for pelting the little bastards whenever he ran short of ammo. They got their revenge weeks later, when he slipped on one of those marbles and landed in a pile of droppings, and no matter how much he cursed and thrashed the blackbirds only cawed louder, as if heckling him.

The Rubik's cube didn't waste half the time the board game did in making him furious, although every time he got fed up, tossed it into a random corner of the base and then found it weeks later, he always tried it again. And he thought he read somewhere that the definition of insanity was trying the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.

Or maybe that was masochism, except he'd better define that as trying to read those porno mags. At first he dismissed them, saying that trash was more Tucker's style, and started to carry them across the base to pawn off on his teammate. He made it twenty paces before he caught what he was doing and berated himself for being so stupid. Despite his vow to not touch the things again—what a useless fucking tease for a ghost, porn—by the second month he had memorized all fourteen of their articles, even though looking at the centerfolds kindled bitterness over what was lost that inevitably boiled into a need to go shoot more birds.

The only decent prize in the whole lot was the cards, though there were only so many games a man could play by himself. What he really needed was a diversion, some long-term job he could use to occupy himself, or for Command to just _throw him a damn bone_ , but all they ever sent was more ammo. Eventually he started to wonder if the message there was to put himself out of his misery, but he never did like to read too much into Command's orders.

The base itself had seen better days, the crumbling gaps in its walls filled with dust and debris, so he made up a laundry list of ways to spruce up the place—or he would have, if only he had a pencil or a marker or—hell, anything. He had called in to ask for 'something to write with,' and his punishment for being too vague was a box of jumbo-sized colored chalk. It looked like it fell fresh out of a child's school bag. What was this, the army or daycare?

At least daycare has recess, and nap time, and everyone gets to _go home_ at the end of the day, but...

Hey, he could take naps whenever he wanted—the robotic equivalent, anyway. His body had a 'sleep mode' that could turn down his system processes to conserve power, and if he lay still and let his mind relax, it was the next best thing to dozing off. Hell, he could even dream—or maybe that was a trick of the mind, too, just letting it wander while he pretended to sleep. Lamely enough, he never went very far from his post in his dreams. His imagination didn't even have the decency to make up fun things, like riding a motorcycle or going to the movies or maybe a date-

 _Twitch, snap._ The stick of white chalk snapped in two between his fingers. He was drawing on the wall again when he felt that odd twinge in his chest, maybe a short wire or a burst of static. He'd crack open his suit and take a look, but he wasn't really good at repair-work, which was kind of ironic, being a robot. Well, a ghost in a robot's body. It didn't matter; he'd been dead for years, so a few loose screws weren't going to kill him now. It was just a little annoying.

He cursed, stooped to pick up the broken pieces, and used the fatter half to finish scratching another tally on the wall. Three-hundred and ten of them, now. After a thrilling twenty-four hours he could add another.

He needed to quit breaking his chalk. It would be just a little shameful to ask for more 'Fun Kid's Sidewalk Doodlers,' as the box read. He'd already worn away most of the colored ones making up his 'teams,' only to have birds desecrate the blue rocks and make him wash them and start over. Why couldn't they shit all over the red ones, instead? That was just his luck.

The chalk came in a variety of colors, at least, so his team could have some diversity. There was now a teal (well, green...ish. close enough) rock, a yellow rock and a blue rock on his side, and behind a fence on the other end of the base, a circle of red rocks plotted steadily against them (he regretted there only being one shade of red, so he threw mud on one of the rocks to give it a maroon-ish coat, and tried to mix white and red chalk on another. It made more of a white-ish-red bloody mess than anything pink.) For a while, part of his daily routine was to sit with his teammates and snipe at the Reds, or even sling some insults to go with the wayward bullets. A stray shot hit one of those birds, once. Fucker deserved it, for messing with his team.

He wasn't crazy; he knew it wasn't real. It was just a game, another pastime. It had been a while since he fought with the Reds, anyway—maybe five, six weeks? Not since he actually hit one of them. It was a wild shot, ricocheting off a metal beam and nailing that rock dead-on. He remembered the way it exploded in a cloud of orange dust, so quiet in the wake of the gunshot he could hear the coolant in his veins freeze up. He didn't look over the fence anymore. Stupid Reds were never much of a threat, anyway.

The boredom was something he expected; it was just another part of the job. The army was always like that, and he told himself he'd be bored no matter where he was stationed—but then, he told himself a lot of things. Most of them out loud. One time he caught himself _singing_ in front of the yellow and teal rocks—which gave him dirty and amused looks, respectively—and he swore right there, never again.

Some days, though, he felt his patience slipping. Some days he wanted to beat his head against a wall until he knocked his lights out, just for a change of pace. Sometimes he'd say that all he needed was one good reason—just one—to get up and leave this shithole, open the gate and walk out and never look back. Even so, he could never dig up that one reason, bogged down in his post orders, the risk of getting caught AWOL, the fickle belief that Command needed him here for _something_ , or the simple realization that he had nowhere else to go.

Maybe he was scared—-maybe he was a coward—maybe he was just desperate enough to latch onto the next person that showed up to lead him out of there—someone, _anybody_. As long as it wasn't Caboose (God, he might just shoot himself first, save him the bullets.)

Or a Freelancer. Seriously, fuck those guys, and their little AIs, too. They tried to kill Tucker, they broke Caboose's brain (the rookie was dumb as a post right out of the gate, but O'Malley certainly didn't help), and they took away Tex—twice. Now he'll never see her again, and it's all their fault, their fault, _their fault_ (it couldn't be his fault, he tried, he tried so hard, he didn't try hard enough.) If he went the rest of his life without seeing another Freelancer, he might die happy.

...Oh, who was he kidding? He could never die. Or be happy. But hey, he still had some chalk. His luck hadn't run out yet. He wasn't much of an artist, but he had plenty of wall-space to try, and sitting in front of a blank concrete slab racking his brain for a subject to draw always killed a few hours, if nothing else.

He had just started a doodle when a voice made him jump.

"Dude, what the hell are you doing?"

Micro-fans and processor bits whirred into high gear, imitating a startled gasp as he clambered to his feet. "Whoa! What the fuck-"

Another soldier was standing not five feet away, helmeted head cocked quizzically, and next to him was this hunchbacked creature—an alien, clad in a matching set of teal armor with dark blue pads.

Teal armor. His breath caught in his false lungs before he belted out in a voice too cracked for his own good, "T-Tucker!"

"That's my name, don't wear it out," his old teammate chirped. The alien uttered a quaint, "Blarg." It stood waist-high, now, taller than he last remembered.

"And Junior? What the hell, how did you two get in here?" That had to be his first question, of all things. Smooth.

"Uh." Tucker stuck a thumb over his shoulder. "We just walked in. You know, through that big-ass hole in your wall."

"Fuck." He knew that traffic cone wouldn't be enough to repel intruders. Fixing that wall was on his laundry list, honest.

Tucker gave an open shrug. "And nice to see you too, asshole. We came all this way and..." He bent a look around at the half-baked graffiti. "What's up with this? It looks like a pre-schooler ate a piece of chalk and threw up all over the place." His kid 'honk'ed in either agreement or laughter, it was hard to tell.

"Hey fuck you," he retorted, though he couldn't force any malice into it. There was an electric thrumming in his chest and helmet and it felt like something snapped in there but he was just in shock, really. He needed a minute, to remember to breathe. This was literally the first person he'd seen in almost a year and he just didn't know how, why- "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, we were just doing a little sight-seeing, checking out the middle of bum-fuck nowhere..." Tucker huffed, as if it were obvious. "We came looking for you, what else? Me and Junior ran into some trouble and we need your help. Can't handle it on our own and who else are we gonna get, Caboose?"

"Tch, I see your point." His regulation-blue rock was effectively more useful than Caboose, and that's on days he wasn't feeling team-kill-y. "But how did you find me? I thought I hid my relocation orders from you guys. And you weren't even there at the time!"

Tucker crossed his arms, looking smug. "Please, bitch, like that's enough to get rid of me." That was the only explanation he offered before casting a hopeful look into the base. "So hey, got anything to eat around here? It's been a long trip, and we're starving."

"Honk!"

"Oh, uh-" He nearly forgot himself, spinning around and trying to remember which crates contained rations. He never ate any, not having a real body and all, but he did try to use them for squirrel bait, once. Turns out not even the tree-rats would touch that awful shit. "Yeah, I, um…" _Com'on man, get a grip._ "Yeah. Uh, I'll fix you guys somethin'. Just... make yourselves at home, I guess."

His guests did so, more-or-less, poking around the run-down courtyard while he went inside to find a palatable meal. He didn't know why he was stumbling the whole way—well okay, the truth was he was excited to simply have guests. It had been a while, and the prospect of a conversation with a real human being (even if that human being was Tucker) was enough to make him giddy. But he would _not_ turn into a squeaky little girl over this, no way.

The freeze-dried fruit and noodles he found in the pantry were a godsend. In no time he brought out a couple of servings in a pot, and the three sat under a tree outside the ruined bunker to enjoy their dinner. _What a fucked-up picnic: a guy, an alien and a ghost-robot._

"Yeah, no kidding," Tucker agreed as he scooped out a dish for Junior.

Did he say his last thought out loud? He really needed to cut that out. "That grub can eat noodles?"

As usual, Tucker ignored the sneer in his tone. "He can eat lots of stuff. You should see him wolf down whole cans of chili! Wait a while after and he can clear out a mess hall in twenty seconds flat."

"Gross."

Tucker chuckled. "Yeah, it was awesome."

"So, uh..." He was perched on a boulder, fidgeting, trying not to look at the abomination his teammate spawned as it slurped up noodles in noisy snorts. Meanwhile Tucker hadn't taken off his helmet, much less made a move to eat, but his host wasn't struck with a better suggestion. He couldn't distinctly remember what Tucker's face looked like, at any rate—he didn't know why that troubled him. "What's going on? You said you ran into some trouble?"

"Oh, right. It's just these aliens, and then some guys showed up, and..." He glanced aside, evasive, strange. Junior lent him an inquisitive snarl, noodles dangling from its split mouth like a slimy beard. The kid suddenly looked tiny, like an ankle-biter again. "Shit, dude, it's a long story. I figure we can stay here and rest a night, and I'll tell you all about it when we head out in the morning. That sound cool?"

"Yeah, sure, of course," he consented, hardly giving a second thought. His One Good Reason out of this dump had just showed up, and he wasn't about to argue with it. He could ask questions on the way.

"Right. So, got anything interesting to do in this joint?"

The short answer was 'not really.' The long answer was that he had a deck of cards splayed over a crate somewhere in the world's longest-running game of solitaire, but he felt comfortable breaking it on Tucker's behalf for a round of gin.

Or two. Or ten. He'd lost count of the rounds or anything resembling a score by the time the sun set over the gently-sloping canyon. It was dark before they knew it, and the last unbroken light hanging over the base (the others were shattered by gunfire, some of it more friendly than the base's occupant would care to admit) was just enough for playing cards, while not enough to keep Junior from curling up in a patch of grass and falling sleep.

"...So you've been here by yourself? This whole time?" Tucker sounded amazed, for some reason.

"It is really that surprising, knowing this army?"

Tucker scoffed. "No, not really. Just seems kind of douchey to dump somebody here and forget about him."

"Yeah, well... It hasn't been that bad," he grumbled. "Just got a fucking squirrel infestation, and don't get me started on the damn birds."

"Heh. Why don't you just shoo—" Tucker caught himself with a snicker. "Never mind, that sounded smarter before I said it."

"What's that supposed to mean? I did hit one, I'll have you know!" _While shooting at the Re—er, rocks._

"Yeah right. Just one? What were you actually aiming at?"

"Up yours."

A few turns passed in silence. He didn't know how to break it, nor whether he should. It was too much like all those days on the roof of that base, before the rookie showed up, before he got shot with the tank, before Tex died, before everything started that turned their lives into a huge shitstorm, back when it was just him and Tucker and some Reds to yell at—something felt tight where his ribs would be. Just a twitch, a metal spark—it was nothing. Was that really years ago? He could go back to it right now and not miss a beat.

"Man... Remember when we threw those rocks through the teleporter?"

Tucker shot back, eager and accusing, "Yeah, and they came out all black and smoky? And then you expected me to go through that thing?"

"Com'on, it's not like I was forcing you to."

"You pointed a gun at me!"

"Oh. I guess I did."

"Yeah, but then remember when I threw that grenade through the teleporter to stop Lopez?"

"Oh yeah, and you blew me up instead? I should've kicked your ass for that."

"With what, the body you didn't have at the time? Gonna literally haunt my ass with your ghost foot?"

"I would've found a way, dickhead."

Tucker let it go with another snicker, dropping his attention back to their game. He then flipped his last card and sat back on his hands triumphantly, waiting for his opponent's loss to sink in.

"...Oh you son of a bitch."

"Ahahaha." Tucker stretched his arms over his head with a yawn, drawling, "Gaaaame, bitch. And I'm bushed. I'm gonna turn in."

"Yeah, good idea..." he relented, watching his teammate sniff out a soft spot on the ground next to Junior. He then leaned back against a comfortable rock, breathing out his respiration vents with a long sigh. At times like this his body could feel so life-like it fooled him into thinking he was alive again. Or maybe it was just the occasion—it was all too much. This whole evening he'd never felt so... anxious, _wired_ , but in a good way. Would he dare say he was happy? He couldn't stomach a word that strong—not just yet. Perhaps he was more relieved than anything.

He was finally going to get out of here. He didn't even care where he was going—it was just going to be _not here_ and not alone and Tucker was with him again. Again. Like old times, right? He missed old times. He missed the fucking Reds and his fucking teammates and every asshole in-between, because they were real and talking to him and giving him real bullshit to deal with instead of all the fake bullshit he'd been making up for himself—just something to _do_ , _anything_. He actually missed that fucking canyon.

There, he said it. Well, he thought it. At least he didn't say it aloud; Tucker would give him non-stop shit for a sentiment like that. All the same, would it hurt to voice a little gratitude? Maybe tell him how glad he was to be delivered from this hellhole?

 _Hey, Tucker..._

The line fell short in his head before he could sort it out. He wanted to say something meaningful but he really didn't at the same time. How stupid was that?

 _Tucker, I..._

"See you in the morning, dude."

"Ah-huh? Oh, yeah. Good night."

"Mmmnight."

 _...Never mind_.

He would find a way to not say it tomorrow. All he had to do was wait for sunrise. He could try to snooze through the night, himself, but he was too wound-up, and too afraid to fall into sleep mode because he just might wake and up realize it's all been a-

"Hey, Church."

He glanced back at his teammate, who was suddenly awake, his dull gold visor catching the night-light in a way that made him look eerie. Tucker had just said his name for the first time that whole day. It was he first time he'd heard his name at all in ten months. That was jarring enough, but...

The next thing Tucker said wasn't even in his voice. _"You know this isn't real, right?"_

 _Twitch. Snap._

Broken chalk tumbled out of his fingers and to the ground. He blinked—it was a spasm, just a spark—and was face-to-face with a concrete wall, the base's last light beaming over his shoulder from the wrong direction. God only knows how long he'd been here, staring at an unmoving canvas and willing some chalk doodles into existence. Once the buzzing from his short-circuited system died down, all he could hear was the damning crow of a bird in the distance, and a lot of silence—thick, dark.

Alone.

Church had to focus in the dim light to see what he had drawn: three stick figures under a poofy tree, with some box-like thing off to the side, or maybe the background—was it a base? Two of the sticks wore smiley faces, and the third was actually a squat blob with lots of teeth. His black-gloved fingers were covered in white, and what was left of the stick of chalk had rolled into a crack under the wall, just out of reach. But that didn't really matter any more.

His hands were shaking.


End file.
